Dancer Dearest
by JeSuisUnePomme
Summary: FrUk Oneshot. "I dragged my eyes up your form before meeting your smiling gaze and my heart did a double cabriolé from my chest into my throat...I will never understand why you had come to stand in front of me the first time we met, I insist I'm quite plain, hiding behind papers and pencils, sketching the world as I see it." Dancer AU prompt.


Tumblr Ficlet Request: FrUk Dancer AU

Chosen Prompt: We go to the same [fine arts] school, and I see you stretching in the hall, and I shouldn't be turned on by the fact that you can practically bend in half?

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Dear Dancer Dearest;

Do you remember when we first met? It is one of my most vivid memories to this day.

We had attended the same fine arts school, top in the district. I was enrolled in the visual arts program and you were in dance; even though we were both top of our classes, there had been no reason for either of us to ever run into each other. I much preferred to hide myself away in the familiar smells of oil paints, turpentine, and damar varnish while you were too busy perfecting your craft – both too engrossed in our own little worlds to roam very far away.

I had once made the mistake of taking a "shortcut" through the music wing in order to meet my friends for lunch in the courtyard. I unhappily discovered that band kids were _weird_ , and I much preferred the haughty silence of teenage "misunderstood artists" who simply needed to "express themselves". I never wandered very far away from the art room then, except to attend my regular classes. You were a year above me, so we didn't have any of those in common.

Lukas, my classmate and friend, we bonded in mutual silence and distaste for the general population of our peers, had been the one to pull me from my daily reverie. I will forever thank him for doing so, otherwise we never would have met.

"Arthur," he called, interrupting my inner monologue as I packed my supplies into my satchel, "let's go to the theatre wing, I need to practice my figure drawing."

"Why there?"

"I'll be able to find models without asking." He said, glaring like I should have known already, _duh_. I merely shrugged in response, indifferent to the suggestion. I may as well tag along, I could use the practice as well. I said, "alright," as I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him out into the hall.

I wouldn't admit out loud that I was a bit skeptical to go to the theatre wing. I'd imagined it to be full of writhing bodies as dancers practiced sultry poses without a care as to who was watching or whose way they got in. I thought there would be clusters of strange kids in stranger attire, over-acting as they practiced lines from a Shakespearean play. I was a little disappointed to discover the halls filled with normal looking kids my own age, sitting and eating their lunches, having normal conversations amongst themselves. There were a handful of dancers here and there, stretching on the floor as they ate a salad or granola bar, like sitting and doing the splits was the most natural thing in the world.

"Where are we going, Lukas?" I finally asked, picking my way through the hall of unfamiliar faces. Nobody paid me any attention.

"You'll see," was the quiet response I received.

Then, I rounded the corner and my eyes fell upon you for the very first time.

Your hair, like spun gold, was wound into a loose ponytail high on your head, you had one of those stupid, thick headbands that sporty girls seem to like stretched over your head, keeping any stray hairs out of your face. You were wearing a loose, white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled to your elbows and the top buttons open, the V of the open shirt dipping low on your chest. You had on black footed tights and soft ballet slippers, your legs stretched out in front of you with your feet curving to a point.

You reached your hands forward and grabbed your feet and I was helpless to take another step, frozen to the floor. I watched as you breathed deep and even, your back straight and your chest inching closer to your knees with each breath. I tilted my head to the side as I observed you fold yourself quite in half. Then, after a few moments you sat up again, curling your legs so the soles of your feet were touching, pressed close to your body, and you folded yourself down to the floor again, like a butterfly.

It was not a complicated stretch, or even sensual in any way, but you took my breath away. I watched you, open-mouthed, as you mentally counted out your position, breathing slow and even, relaxing further and further into yourself. I didn't understand how it was humanly possible to contort one's body like that. I wanted to watch you all day, to see what other positions you could twist yourself into with a contented expression settled on your face. However, I was called up from my trance first by Lukas calling out to me, then by you looking up and noticing me staring. You smiled.

I very quickly found my feet and hurried to catch up to Lukas, who was holding open the door to a practice room looking mildly concerned.

The room was filled with dance partners stretching, practicing lifts, or walking through choreography. I immediately understood why Lukas would find this place appealing to practice drawing; with how dancers dressed in such tight, revealing clothing, you could easily observe how muscles moved with certain movements, the people themselves taking up such interesting, unique poses. It was a goldmine for quick figure sketching.

Lukas and I situated ourselves out of the way on the floor, but with a clear view of the entire room. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, we both took out our sketchbooks and began to draw. Before long, I had lost myself in my concentration, as I often do, shut off from the real world as I sketched. The movement fascinated me, and soon I was dreaming up entire paintings I could do of dancers, or how else I could use these new poses I was committing to memory in other fantastical pieces of art in the future.

Then, I noticed a pair of black slippers just beyond the edge of my sketch pad, and a lilting, velvety voice asked, "pardon me?" I dragged my eyes up your form before meeting your smiling gaze and my heart did a double cabriolé from my chest into my throat. You didn't seem to notice, as you kept talking, "if you are not busy, do you think you could help me with something?" You sounded like music to me. I could not speak, so I blinked and slowly nodded my head, closing my sketchbook and placing it on the floor beside me.

I only just noticed that Lukas had disappeared; he was on the other side of the room, giving quiet directions to a pair of dancers to hold a pose while he quickly sketched. I had no one to save me from you and became your prisoner the moment you offered your hand down to pull me to my feet. "I just need help with one of my stretches," you explained, still holding my hand and leading me to an empty spot on the floor. I looked around in a panic, trying to see if there was _anybody_ else that could possibly aid you, but everyone was paired off or looked too busy. You let go of my hand and smiled at me, I swallowed hard and wiped my sweaty palms against my pants.

You dropped to the floor at my feet, somehow making it all look very graceful, and settled comfortably on your back, arms straight at your sides, one leg stiff to a point. The other leg, however, you raised into the air, foot hovering a foot away from my pounding heart. "Take my leg, _s'il vous plaît_ ," you said softly. You instructed me to stand with a foot on either side of your hip and then to push on your leg towards your face, effectively scissoring you right in half. I was dizzy, I kept having to adjust my stance, eventually coming to rest on my knees, as you encouraged me to use more and more pressure, I was falling closer and closer towards you. Finally, with your leg almost at your jaw, you said, "ah, there, hold that."

In hindsight, you probably could have effectively stretched on your own, you didn't _need_ me to help you. Hindsight it always 20/20, as they say.

I watched your face as your eyes fluttered closed and you quietly counted out our held position. We switched legs, and your eyes locked on to mine. Our faces were so close I could feel your breath on my skin, it tickled; I had one hand on the floor by your head in order to keep myself up, the other holding your calf and pushing it down until you told me to stop. I was effectively on top of you, you could have curled your leg around my neck, and it was very difficult not to imagine ourselves in the same position but in a very different setting.

I felt my face heat up with a very loud blush and you chuckled softly, never looking away. I hated that you seemed to know exactly what was going through my head. You tilted your chin up a hairsbreadth and parted your lips, a breathy moan sliding out. You insisted it was in response to stretching, I insisted you did it for the reaction.

I threw myself away from you so suddenly I tripped over your leg on the ground and crashed into a couple practicing a lift next to us. We fell to the floor in a flurry of limbs and colourful swearing. Even though my ears were ringing, I could still hear your musical laughter.

I untangled myself, apologizing profusely, and ran from the room.

I didn't even realize I had forgotten my satchel until I was back in the safety and familiarity of the art room. I was comforted by the scent of paper, ink, greasy pastels, and acrylic paint. I don't think my heart returned to a normal rhythm for the rest of the afternoon; how I survived the day, I'm still not quite sure.

The next morning you were waiting for me at the doorway to the art wing, leaning casually, my satchel hanging from your open palm. You smiled and my heart raced away.

"You forget this, _cher_ ," I wanted to run to my comfort zone, but you were blocking my path. "You are a very talented artist, I hope you do not mind that I looked through your sketches." That made me angry.

"Excuse me, frog, that is private! You cannot just go snooping through other people's things!"

You had the gall to stir up the butterflies in my gut with your laugh, "Oho? I apologize, then. You left so suddenly, I did not have an opportunity to ask permission!"

I stomped up to you and snatched my bag from your grasp before heading towards the art room. You trailed after me.

"I especially liked the drawings of me!" I froze.

" _What_?"

Thankfully for you (and a little for me) Lukas suddenly appeared and dragged me away by the elbow, shooting a withering glare in your direction. He was cross with me for having abandoned him to a bunch of dancers and theatre students, but I hardly understood the words he was using, my mind was still standing in the hall with you. Once Lukas had finished his rant, I opened my bag and dug out my sketchbook. Flipping it open to the last page I had used, I noticed all of the figures I drew the previous day were all, indeed, of you. Not all of them had faces, but they all had long hair, some tied in a ponytail, some flying free in the movement of a spin, all had your notable patch of hair on your chin. I turned the page and my blood ran cold.

"Francis Bonnefoy" you had scrawled across the middle in pink pen, you dotted the I of your first name with a heart. Below that you'd included your phone number. "You should help me stretch again sometime," you wrote. I slammed the book shut before Lukas could see, my heart was pounding so heavy I was mildly surprised that the room in which I was standing wasn't shaking with the aftershocks.

I couldn't help but text you that afternoon.

"This is Arthur Kirkland," I wrote, then tossed my phone far away from me. I didn't want to see if you'd respond, I hated myself for bending to your will as easily as you'd perform a plié.

You did respond, of course, and I had to get up and find my phone in the pile of laundry it had disappeared into. Every time it would vibrate with a new, incoming message my heart would jump and my head would spin and the world would stand still until I could open the message and respond with shaking fingers.

Did you know then the effect you had on me?

You were like a drug, adrenaline would course through my veins every time we spoke.

You followed me around like a puppy, although I'm not sure why. I was never nice to you in person. I think you stuck around because you would sneak peeks into my sketchbook and see it filled entirely with you, then laugh at me as I denied it. I'd hit you over the head with it and demand you mind your own business, you'd make a show of pouting, "you are so mean, _rosbif_!"

Then, you graduated first and my world lost a little bit of its colour. You had been head-hunted by an elite dance academy where you eventually wound up.

I saw you once, while I was walking down the street. You were in a coffee shop, laughing with a group of friends. They must have been dancers, all of you shone bright with sweat, your hair was pulled back and you were wearing that stupid headband. You took my breath away even then as you laughed around your coffee cup, eyes bright and attentive to whomever was speaking to you. I ran, of course, I didn't want you to see me. I was such an idiot.

My heart would just about explode out of my chest when you'd randomly text me, checking in, asking how I was doing. Half the time I would not respond, wishing you'd disappear because you were ruining my life. The other half of the time I couldn't respond fast enough, hungry for your attention.

I was so in love with you, but I couldn't have you. You were still the subject of most of my art – was I ever in your mind as you danced?

I was at the opening of your first big show. You were beautiful – although I didn't pay much attention to anyone else on the stage. Watching you once wasn't enough, so I bought tickets to every performance and went to every single one. To me, you stole the show. Perhaps I am biased, I could watch you watch paint dry and be enthralled. I had wanted to send you flowers, but I wasn't sure how to get them to you or even if you remembered me at the time – it had been so long since your last text to me.

I remember the day we met again, years later, like it was yesterday.

It was a Tuesday evening. The weather had been unusually warm for spring, except that afternoon it had cooled down and started to rain. The world smelled loamy and wonderful, the sun was just starting to sink down, casting the world into light pastels, like the inside of a cotton candy machine. I was sitting in a covered gazebo in the park, quietly sketching a family of ducks that had been swimming around the pond in front of me.

I saw the pair of dark boots over the edge of my sketchbook and dragged my eyes up your form before meeting your smiling gaze.

"Arthur," you said, voice sounding just like the music I remembered. My heart stopped and I'm pretty sure my mouth fell open. "You have not been to any of my recent performances, _chérie_ ," you said, tilting your head to one side and regarding me with a sad expression. "You used to come to all of them, remember?" I hated you for having noticed and never having said anything. I couldn't find my voice.

We regarded one another for several moments while I tried to pick my thoughts up off the ground, they seemed to be scattering away in the breeze just at the sight of you. The sun was setting, you looked perfect, like you were glowing.

I will never understand why you had come to stand in front of me the first time we met, I insist I'm quite plain, hiding behind papers and pencils, sketching the world as I see it. You had danced your way in and out of my life once before, and sitting in that park that evening, the sky behind you bursting into colour like a painting straight from the impressionist movement, I knew I couldn't let you disappear again.

I stood and took my sketchbook, flipping back several pages, and holding it up for you to see. Your eyes widened as you recognized your own face.

"I wanted to be at every show," I said, my voice finally untangling itself from the knot in my throat, "I had no idea you knew I was there."

"You were the only one in the audience that mattered."

It seemed that we had both missed opportunities when we were younger. We both thought the other indifferent and incapable of falling in love. Your heart had beat just as fast for me as mine did for you.

You leaned down and kissed me then, just as the sun was setting over the treeline. Your lips were warm and silky, you tasted like melted sugar and perfection.

Our relationship was not an easy one, we faced many trials together. But you stuck by my side through it all and I'm a better man for it. You stood by me, even when I didn't always deserve it, you're loyal to a fault – I think that's a trait that not everyone would suspect in you. You are gentle, and caring, and compassionate. You wear your heart on your sleeve and trust that whoever sees it won't break it.

I promise I will treasure your heart and I will fiercely return your loyalty and kindness. I promise not to be grumpy every single morning, and to try and keep a scowl off my face when you want me to try some newfangled dessert you've imagined in the kitchen. I promise not to get mad when you break one of my grandmother's teacups (at least, not for long), and to stay out of the kitchen when the stove is on.

You are my best friend, my soul mate, for eternity. I promise to love you, and respect you, and to help you stretch whenever you ask! I promise to keep you safe, to hold your hand when you are scared, to laugh with you and to cry with you. I promise to let you care for me when I am unwell, and to do the same for you. I promise to look into your eyes every single day and tell you how beautiful you are, even when we are both old and wrinkled, because you will be. You will always be the most beautiful person in the world. I promise to love you as deeply and as passionately as I did the first day we met until the last day we are together.

Tomorrow, dancer dearest, I will promise all of these things and more before all of our friends and family.

I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

Love,

Your doting artist, Arthur Kirkland

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 **AN: I tried something a little different with this one... oops? Also, this was supposed to be a handful of paragraphs only... then it ran away with me. My brain absolutely switched tracks halfway through, so I'm not sure this is the best thing I've ever written, but it's cute and fluffy, so har-dee-har-har**


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